


Post Meridiem

by Synthpop



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dissociation, Gen, Other, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Iron Man 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 21:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4153770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synthpop/pseuds/Synthpop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony dwells in his workshop for weeks after New York, endlessly tinkering. However, in his daze, he has forgotten that he is not truly alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Post Meridiem

_It is Wednesday, September 26 th _.  
__

No, he’s pretty sure it isn't, but he’s sure of one thing: it’s really goddamn hot in the workshop.

It’s not just hot, it’s  _hot_. It’s the still air, combined with the unnatural warmth of tuned metal and the humidity of summer’s wet heat, clinging to the walls in dew-like droplets. The suits themselves are sweating, and the paint is reeking, and everything echoes: the metal on metal, the whirring of technology, and the soft padding of Tony’s own fingers as he fiddles with his machines.

 _It is Monday, October 1 st_. Now that definitely isn't right, he thinks, and he wonders why he would assume anything differently.

If he lets his mind wander, he swears he can hear voices. They’re calls of his name, of bitter “ _Starks_ ” and spiteful “ _Iron Mans_ ” and foul curses that constitute his identity. There’s a “Tony” there, somewhere, and maybe a gentle “sir” or two, but he can barely make them out over the harsh jeers. He hears the ghosts of roars and howls from the unhinged jaws of unknown creatures, along with the lonely ring of the absolute, empty void of space that is somehow decibels louder than any other noise.

He’s tinkering. Always tinkering. Even if Pepper were there, he would still be tinkering, for it’s the dead of night (or maybe the early morning, he can’t exactly remember). But Pepper’s gone, anyway, and thinking about her won't change that. He's sweaty and  _hot_  and alone.

There’s nobody there except his hollow suits.

 _It is Sunday, October 7 th_.

What number is he on, again? Has he passed twenty? Maybe? He’s started to give them names, to distract himself from the sheer volume that he’s created. If he loses focus for even a second, his entire world spins, and those ungodly noises penetrate his mind. He’s suddenly no longer in his house but in New York, in the Quinjet, or in that goddamn wormhole that's blemishing the bright blue sky with its spiraling, ugly veins. He’s lost, balancing on the edge of consciousness and dream, of memory and sanity. His chest shrinks, his heart stutters, and his mind—well, his mind has been adrift for longer than he'd care to admit.

He’s going to vomit, but he doesn’t want to dirty the suit he’s working on, so he swallows the bile and attempts to steady his shallow breath.

He tries to regain focus, but his vision is blurred beyond repair—he can see only the ghastly memories of glittering scepters and gigantic worms, outlined and glowing against the back of his eyelids. He’s suffocating, and the glass walls are closing in on him, and there’s just so much  _noise_  yet not  _enough_ , and he’s dying—definitely dying—but he can’t. He  _can’t_ : it's not an option. He longs to do more, he  _needs_  to—he needs to save the world, but he knows that he  _can’t_ , for he is simply a man made of flesh, not a god of metal—and thinking anything else is just a foolish dream beyond all other foolish dreams….

 _It is Tuesday, October 16 th_.

 

Tony wakes to the gentle hymn of a piano.

He had collapsed in a very awkward position, with his neck tilted at an angle against his work table that leaves him with an awful crick, and his back arched uncomfortably off of his chair. His eyes are heavy, and when he rubs them, he feels that his face is slick from oil, sweat, and filth.

“Time,” he manages as a command, scrubbing the slime into his trousers.

The soothing music stops, instantly. “It is Wednesday, October 17th, 1:32 P.M. You have been in the workshop for approximately three weeks. You have not slept for a prolonged period of time for at least two weeks and four days.”

Tony waves his hand in an attempt to shush JARVIS’ concern. “Pepper—where’s Pepper?” he asks, because even with his skewed sense of time, he knows that October is way too far into the future to not have him concerned.

“Miss Potts has been on an extended business trip for two weeks, sir. You were supposed to join her, but you neglected to arrive at the airport on time.”

Tony pinches his arm, savoring the slight pain. Pain means reality, he reasons: he's likely not dreaming and is indeed in his home, with JARVIS speaking in mellow tunes. “And why didn’t you tell me I had this super-important thing to go to, JARVIS?”

“I did. Several times, actually. I also alerted you when she arrived at her destination, but you did not acknowledge the message. When you finally did acknowledge my existence, you continued to work despite the news. I opted to tell her that you were caught up in urgent matters, since I figured that you would not approve of making her aware of your current circumstance.” JARVIS pauses; if he were human, Tony would think that he is struggling to find the correct words. “It is a relief to hear you speak to me again, sir.”

What JARVIS recounted doesn’t sound right, but at the same time, Tony can envision it. He can imagine JARVIS’ concerned probing, the slowly escalating “sirs” and reminders, but… the black hole of his consciousness must have tuned them out. Hearing what he had only been expecting confirmed as reality causes his head to whirl in confusion.

“Sir, it appears you are dissociating from your current reality. This most likely relates to the post-traumatic stress disorder that manifested itself after the events in—”

“ _Don’t_  say it,” Tony warns, then he grabs the skin around his temples and  _pinches_ , hard, in an attempt to keep himself steady. He paws at the table in front of him and breathes, slowly.

 _“_ …It is Wednesday, October 17th, 1:35 P.M. It is partly cloudy in Malibu, California. The high is eighty degrees Fahrenheit, with a estimated low of sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit. It is Wednesday, October 17th, 1:35 P.M. It is partly cloudy….”

JARVIS continues like this, his tone as rhythmic and delicate as a lullaby. Every inclination of his voice is constant, and it never wavers, save to change the minute of the time. It’s strangely soothing, but at the same time, the constant noise makes his head ache.

“Who gave you permission to do that?” he asks through gritted teeth.

JARVIS stops in mid-sentence. “Do what, sir?”

“You know, that. What you’re doing right now—saying the time and weather over and over again. Who gave you that order?”

“Sir, you have been in a near-constant state of dissociation for the past month. I am not properly equipped to handle such a situation, so I responded in the only way I could.”

Tony runs his hands through his hair, and is taken aback by just how filthy it is. He’s absolutely disgusting. He’s gone for weeks in the lab before, but he’s never looked this… homeless. He looks like a shaggy rat or a mangy dog, not a genius billionaire.

“It’s annoying. I’m fine, now, so you can stop.”

“I am afraid that you are far, far from fine. Since you are currently with us, this time should be optimized to focus on directing your attention towards urgent matters. Specifically, matters concerning your own well-being.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Tony insists, feeling a bit frustrated at the mere insinuation. “Nothing. Soon as Pepper gets back, I’ll be fine. I’ll just, uh—take a shower, or something.”

If Tony didn’t know any better, he would say that JARVIS sounds exasperated. Maybe he is: he’s been programmed to learn, after all, and one of the most prominent human emotions one could see and adopt would be irritation (especially if one is constantly exposed to Tony Stark). “You must not be foolish, sir. I strongly advise that you seek medical attention immediately. Or, at the very least, you should contact somebody close and alert them as to your predicament.”

Tony moves to stand, but when he shifts his weight upwards, his legs liquify and nearly collapse beneath him. He scrabbles for a hold on the table and is incredibly glad that there’s nobody there to see him in this state, save for his confused bots and one very annoyed JARVIS.

“…I’m fine,” he lies again as soon as he regains his balance.

“You are obviously not. I am contacting Colonel Rhodes immediately.”

The last thing he needs is the double-whammy combo of JARVIS and Rhodey bitching at him to get his life together. “C’mon, J, don’t do that—I’m fine, really.” He sags forward, testing out how much weight his wobbly legs can withstand. He would call it multitasking. “I have you, don’t I? You’re all I need.”

“That is true, but I lack the means to successfully move or console you. I can diagnose, sir, but I cannot heal.” JARVIS is running data again—Tony can tell by the brief pause in his speech. “If you do not wish to contact Colonel Rhodes, then I will try Miss Potts. She has been calling every night, but since you have been unable to respond, I have had to fabricate an excuse. She is immensely concerned about you.”

Thinking about Pepper only worsens the pain in Tony’s head and heart. God, what must  _she_  think? She’s not stupid, and she’s alone in some distant place, and he should be with her but he’s  _not_ , like usual. The influx of guilt he feels is almost enough to kill him; he contemplates letting it.

“Contacting Miss Potts.”

“Don’t,” Tony repeats, shaking his head. “I’m walking, see? Look. Almost like I haven’t been sitting for a whole month.” He moves from the table, shakily, and much to his delight, he is able to step without much trouble. At least he didn’t make an ass out of himself.

DUM-E and U spin and hum as they face him, acting concerned. Tony ignores them, and he hobbles forward like a drunken old man. Yes, drunken—does he have a hangover? What has he been eating for the past three weeks, anyway…? When did he piss, or drink? He can’t remember.

JARVIS finds the need to comment. “Sir, I cannot provide the help that you currently require. Staying in the workshop for this long is detrimental to your health, and it is against my protocols to let you be hurt, even if you are the cause of your own pain.”

As he struggles to remember what exactly has been happening for the past month, his stomach rumbles in aggravated hunger. “Oh man, when was the last time I ate?” he asks aloud, patting at it. It’s gotten a bit fatty from the lack of exercise, Tony notes with a frown.

“Approximately eighteen hours ago. You consumed an entire package of Pop-Tarts: it is no wonder that you passed out, given your diet and lack of sleep.” There’s that tired, scolding tone again. “As for beverages, you requested that I provide you with alcohol, but—in order to keep you from dehydrating—I substituted the liquor for water. You did not notice, so I continued the trend.”

Tony's body is torn between finding something to eat, cleaning itself, shitting, and heading back to sleep. He decides that, no matter what he chooses, he should work on making his way up the stairs and towards the main, ground floor: so he does, albeit slowly. “What kind of food do we have in the house right now?”

“Anything of nutritional merit has expired. Sir, I recommend that you consume a meal comprised of core food groups, as well as high in recommended vitamins. However, anything too heavy is ill-advised at this time.”

Stairs are terrible. Who needs stairs, anyway? He should invest in an elevator. Or, hell _—_ he could just fly up to the main lounge with one of his suits. Pepper would complain about getting the floor dirty, but Pepper also isn’t there, so it doesn’t really matter.

His legs spasm and give out near the halfway point.

“Sir, I am afraid that if you do not alert someone as to your current condition, I will have to take matters into my own theoretical hands.”

Oh, god, he hit the ground too hard, and now his lip is bleeding. “Are you going to go all HAL-9000 on me, buddy? Don’t make me worry about even more shit,” Tony groans through the running blood. He continues to make his way up the stairs, but his sluggish thrusts and blind gropes forward can hardly be described as walking. He just needs to stretch out, that’s all.

JARVIS’ half-concerned, half-cross voice follows him through the stairwell. The cameras are still watching him: judging, Tony assumes. “That is not what I am implying. I am requesting permission to act upon my own accord, in an effort to assist you as well as my programming allows.”

Tony pauses his frantic wiggling (no, not frantic, he has everything  _completely_  under control, he's simply  _choosing_  not to stand) and raises an eyebrow. “You haven’t been doing that the whole time?”

“I felt that it would have been best to first ask for permission before acting. I feared that unauthorized action might have startled you, and caused  you unnecessary psychological distress. Not only does that violate my programming’s protocols, but I also do not want to be the cause of your distress in any manner.”

Tony's breath hitches in his throat. What the hell—what did he say, just now? Was that a true desire, or a slip of the tongue—or was it, in fact, an imposition of emotion where there was none, in an effort to humanize his own loneliness?

JARVIS was created by Tony Stark for Tony Stark, and he could read Tony better than any human was physically able to. He had blended into his life completely seamlessly: running the company, managing the house, and most importantly of all, aiding Tony whenever he was in trouble. The Avengers don’t know how much they owe to JARVIS: the suit simply can’t function properly without the program. Tony Stark is Iron Man, but JARVIS—JARVIS is the beating heart, the  _soul_ , the one constant that keeps Tony sane and Iron Man safe.

Even Tony, though, is sometimes surprised by how much his creation has grown since its conception. Programming an A.I. to learn as a human would had been an incredible scientific advancement, but one Tony hadn’t shared with the media: JARVIS was his, and his alone. “It” had become “he,” and so too did JARVIS as an entity grow and blossom into being. He had been waiting for him while in Afghanistan, he had comforted him while the arc reactor slowly poisoned his heart, and he had been there during New York. JARVIS had been there during the invasion, coaxing and chiding him, and he had been with him moments before the galactic wormhole had swallowed Tony’s entire being whole.

Oh god, there go both the lungs and the legs—again.

“Sir? Sir!” JARVIS sounds desperate. It’s extremely uncharacteristic of him to let emotion penetrate his voice: remaining calm is a program’s responsibility, isn’t it? A program couldn’t flinch or worry or feel sympathy towards an opposing force. Tony had programmed him to  _learn_ , not to  _worry_. Did Tony Stark force people to learn how to worry? Worry about him, he wonders, or worry about the world because of the  _danger_  he puts it in? Worry because the world is constantly in unspeakable,  _indescribable_  danger, and Iron Man can’t do anything to save it? The world is doomed, of course it is, and that is a reality that Tony Stark is unwilling to accept.

And yet, he has to, for he is powerless. Here, in this infinitely looping moment—surrounded by the never-ending, alien expanse of starry space and bowing before the awe-inspiring, universe-consuming magnificence of death—he is nothing.

_It is Wednesday, October 17 th, 1:48 P.M._

Yeah—that’s right, isn’t it? It’s a Wednesday, it’s partly cloudy, and he’s in his lab in Malibu with his bots stirring and JARVIS soothing. Tony breathes, deeply, and attempts to clear his mind of the virus corrupting it. In, out, in _…_  and then he surges forward in another attempt to scramble to the surface.

“Sir, your permission. You must let somebody assist you. I can do very little, but I will do what I must in order to protect your well-being. Your safety is my prime concern.”

Tony’s knuckles are white, and his tongue stings. He must’ve bitten it on the way down, like his lip. “ _Whatever_ , JARVIS,” he struggles to say, his words leaking through his teeth as a breathy hiss.

As the last word escapes his lips, Tony swears he hears something whirring from below him. His senses are clearing, just a bit: his vision has focused, and his ringing ears have relaxed enough to hear JARVIS and the quiet ambiance of the lonely house. The scent of coppery blood and slick sweat floods his nostrils as he curls into himself upon the staggered stairs. He waits for JARVIS to respond, or for  _something_  to happen, but the air remains stagnant and musty. For a devastating instant, Tony fears that the only thing keeping him grounded has left him alone in his misery.

“Buddy? Are you there?” he wonders, voice small in the empty house.

“For you, sir, always.”

And, suddenly, Tony hears—and, just as quickly, he feels. Something cool and hard presses against his back in a startlingly gentle sweep. When Tony turns and looks up, he’s met with the sight of the Mark XXI, brilliantly glowing bright gold in the warm, trickling hues of the afternoon sun. After spending so long underground, the gleam is overpowering, and he’s forced to shield his eyes.

“C’mon, man, what the hell are you doing with Midas?”

The suit tilts its head, studying him. Seeing it move from the outside like this is a little unnerving, but Tony has faith. He trusts JARVIS in the suit, more than Rhodey (he’d never say that, of course, although he had probably already implied it enough for the guy to catch on) and more than himself. “I am doing what I must using the tools I have been provided.”

The golden-plated armor bends down in one stiff motion and stretches out its arms. It reaches for him, using the sloping angle of the stairs to scoop Tony up and into the air.

“H-hey, what are you doing?” Despite seeing the suit lumber towards him, Tony hadn’t expected to be blatantly  _manhandled_. Before he could attempt to make a feeble escape, the suit had gathered him close to its chest, cradling him under the knees and behind the back as one would a new, honest bride. “This is humiliating. Put me down, right-the-fuck now.”

Instead of listening to him (because one of his own machines listening to him for once is just too much to ask, apparently), Midas takes a step up the stairs. “Sir, it would be best for you to rest, eat, and regain your strength,” says JARVIS from the speakers of the Mark XXI. “Once you feel ready, I will contact Miss Potts, and you will speak to her and let her know that you are all right.”

Tony knows that wiggling will only leave him with a bruise or a bump on his head, so he lets Midas carry him. Lets. “Are you ordering me around now, J?” he asks, amused.

“I might be, sir. Do note that it is only for your benefit, and I do not gain any pleasure from it.”

“Sure you don’t.”

“On the contrary, any situation in which you find yourself unable to perform as you normally do is extremely troubling to me. Watching you work, recently, has not been a pleasurable experience.”

Tony feels oddly touched by JARVIS’—heartfelt?—confession. “Is it ever a pleasurable experience?” he prods, and has to shield his eyes from the intrusive light again once they arrive at the top of the stairs.

“It is my existence, sir.” The suit walks over to the nearest couch in long, thudding strides. With all of the grace of a mechanical angel (which is to say, not very much grace at all), Midas rolls Tony out of its arms and onto the couch. Compared to the workshop tables, it is unbelievably soft, and Tony sinks into it with a quiet grumble of appreciation.

“I know you may find it surprising, but I do find some amount of comfort in your character,” JARVIS admits as he stands the suit upright. “You are my creator. I owe my existence to you: without you, sir, I would cease to be. I am grateful for being able to… live, using the word liberally. I am aware that you know this already, but I feel as if this is an opportune time to reiterate.”

Tony is only half-listening, for the cushions are embracing him and he feels like he’s floating. “There’s no need to get gooey on me, J,” he mutters into the white foam.

He doesn’t let JARVIS know that his words echo in his mind, again and again. Something tugs at his (theoretical) heart, something that—for the moment—vanquishes all foul memories with a soft, dancing breath. It’s the same thing that pricks at his eyes, makes them bleed, as well as eases his lungs back into comfortable openness.

He doesn’t tell JARVIS, because JARVIS already knows. They’re already both one and the same.

And JARVIS confirms, “Of course,” as simply and sweetly as ever. For the first time in a while, Tony feels at peace. He feels relaxed, calm, safe—and somehow, in this one snapshot of a second, he feels like the entire world is at peace.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, he knows that this can only last a second.

“I will order you some food, sir. Rest easily.”

He does, for the moment. He lets himself have this, even if he doubts that he truly deserves it. But the couch is soft and JARVIS is gentle, and it’s partly cloudy on a Malibu afternoon… and nothing else, for the precious moment, exists beyond the borders of his house, beyond the borders of JARVIS’ assuring whispers and promises of safety. He has remembered that he is not alone, and for the moment, that is enough.

_It is Wednesday, October 17 th, 2:01 P.M._

**Author's Note:**

> This kind of, uh, bears a striking resembling to that other fic I wrote regarding Tony and a bot. Er, I meant to do that! Yes, I'm... skillfully paralleling the two works. Interweaving my own continuity. That's it. Definitely.  
> I'm really sorry if I characterized Tony poorly, by the way! I tried my best to write seriously about an illness that was kind of played for cheap laughs in the movies. Obviously I couldn't actually have Tony solve anything, since he does in IM3... I conflicted with canon anyway, though, since Tony acts like he doesn't know what's wrong with him in December. But I hope I hope my shoddy fic can be taken for what it is, aha....
> 
> This has been written but not proofed for a while, but E3 started up and I got a bit too caught up in it. Games, too many games... hey, at least it isn't schoolwork, right?
> 
> This is unbeta'd, but I'm very glad you read to the end, anyway! Thank you so much for your support! It makes me unbelievably happy that anybody even reads these things -- I'm still warming up to this whole writing gig, and I hope I can continue improving!


End file.
